Pay It With Flowers
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Sam asks Michael - but ends up getting Fi - to help an Irish-born florist who's been scammed out of her holiday. Easy, you say? You must be new to Burn Notice. Set mid season two. Episodically canontastic. And maybe more than a hint of Michael/Fi. I regret nothing. Rated T for naughty words.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

**Just something to break my writer's block - and I do love these characters. My first BN fic, so thanks for giving it a try.**

* * *

One

.

Sam Axe pushed at the metal gate, which swung open without protest. He walked through until he noticed the padlock hanging from the inside. He frowned; _Mikey doesn't leave the padlock swinging on his gate_. Still, he stepped through and surveyed the small concrete area: the Charger was parked under the steps as usual, waiting patiently in the humid afternoon, and nothing signalled trouble - save the padlock on the gate. Sam went for the steps.

_When you're a spy, you learn not to take things at face value. That picked padlock on the approach to someone's home may mean a break-in, or it may simply mean someone forgot their keys._

Sam climbed the steps, hauling on the handrail until he reached the door. He raised his hand to pound on it but paused as sudden noises distracted him.

_Or of course it could mean that someone had more important things on their mind than a lock._

Sam's face creased as he recognised the unmistakeable sounds of Michael Westen being tortured.

"Aaa! _Really?_ You're going to-! Aaa! Ow! Is that the best you can do!"

There was a crash and a thump. Sam took a step back. He braced himself - but stopped short as a giggle interrupted his plans for door domination.

"Honestly, Michael - you always _used_ to like this."

"That was before I got my - OW! - I got my arm broken in-. ARRGH! Fi! Fi! Not my-. ARGH!"

A ring of metal on wood. An _oof!_ that had Sam wincing. A wicked female laugh and a wooden _smack_. Sam's feet shuffled him back a good two feet as his brain did flips.

Michael's shout made Sam jump. "OW! Fi - cut it out!"

"Not until I'm completely satisfied."

"Well that's not going to happen _if I'm dead_." Pause. "ARGH! Fi!"

_I do not want to know what's going on behind that door_, Sam sniffed to himself. He turned and hurried down the steps. He stopped by the Charger and pulled out his cell phone. A quick thumb at the speed dial and he had slapped it to his ear.

The protesting and giggling from the loft went quiet. Sam heard the line click.

"Yeah, Sam," Michael managed - sounding weary, relieved.

Sam took a deep breath. "Oh, hey, Mike. Busy?" he asked carefully.

"No." There was a scuffle, material scraped over the earpiece, a voice from somewhere behind the phone receiver. Michael sniffed down the phone. "No, Sam. Come on over."

"If you're sure, Mike. -I could come back in a few hours."

"Sam… are you outside?" Michael asked suspiciously.

"Kinda," he allowed.

"Come on up."

Sam looked at the phone in worry. Then he snapped it shut and slid it back into his pocket as he made his way back up the steps. He pushed at the door and it swung open. His feet took him in and his hands guided the metal door shut - but he didn't look over at the middle of the room, nor the bed in it.

"Sam," Fiona said with a sly smile in her voice. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Now Sam _did_ look over - to see her walking toward the fridge, wiping her hands together. Sam dared to look at Michael, and was surprised to find him flat out on his front on the bed, his jeans distressed. His white t-shirt was clearly freaking out, warning Sam not to ask what had caused it to be so rumpled.

"Hey Sam," Michael groaned.

"Hard day?" Sam asked lightly, going quickly to the fridge in the far corner.

Fiona closed the door of the appliance rather deliberately in his face, taking her own beer bottle to the other side of the wooden table. "Michael's shoulder has some issues," she said. "I was encouraging it to lighten up."

"I'm sure," Sam said to himself, reaching in the fridge for a beer. "Anyhoo, what else you two up to?"

Fiona turned and pinned him with a look that could have melted the door off the refrigerator without even trying. Sam raised his free hand. "No - I meant - I meant like, have you got any work right now? Cos I might have something-"

Michael propped his chin on the sheets. "What is it?" he muttered, still spread-eagled on his front, clearly with no intention of moving this month.

"Michael's not taking any cases right now," Fiona announced.

Sam looked at Michael. Michael just rolled his eyes. Then they closed as if he really did not need the light pollution and his face planted into the softness.

"Why's that?" Sam dared, pulling the top off the beer bottle.

"His shoulder still isn't healed. He'll get himself into trouble," Fiona said. She sipped her beer, her eyes watching Sam in a way he knew meant she was searching out weak spots for a knife attack on his person.

"Ok, well…" He sipped at his beer, then leant his free hand against the wooden table. "I could do it myself. I mean, it's only a holiday scam thing. It'll be simple."

"Sam, every time you say that, it escalates into a gang war, or a drug cartel, or an FBI bust," Michael muttered into the sheets beneath him.

"Yeah, well, this one couldn't turn out like those others, don't you worry about that. I just thought maybe Fi would like to meet the client, that's all," Sam shrugged, taking another swig of beer.

"Is he devastatingly handsome?" she said eagerly, with a small smile.

Michael's head tipped up slightly. His gaze barely made it to Fiona across the room. Then his face collapsed back into the sheets.

"_She's_ from your neck of the woods," Sam said nonchalantly, sniffing and looking over at the door to the balcony. "Only been in the US a year."

"Really?" Fiona asked, her eyes narrowing. "What does she deal in? Guns? Explosive devices?"

"Flowers," Sam said, turning back to look at her. "She's a florist. Honest."

"That kinda rhymes," Michael grunted into his sheet.

Sam glanced at him, but his eyes went back to Fiona. "Anyway, if you don't want this girl to get any help, then-"

"I never said _I_ wouldn't help," Fiona said archly. "What's the job?"

"Well, she's been working her ass off over here, and her husband's doing the same. They got married late 2011 but had no money for anything else. Now they've made some, she booked a surprise honeymoon through this company. Man, she went for the works. She must really need a holiday," Sam shrugged, sipping his beer.

"And let me guess," Fiona said, perching on the stool next to her. "The company took her money and then vanished. She has no honeymoon to go to."

"Bang on, sister," Sam said. He put down his beer bottle. "All her savings, everything she planned for the two of them? Gone. Down the tubes. Everything. Nine grand just - poof. And the worse thing? The husband didn't even know. And now he's asking for their joint savings so they can go somewhere together."

"Well then, we'll just go and get the money back," Fiona said.

Sam's face morphed into abject apprehension. "You and me?"

"Poor woman's lost what should have been the most amazing holiday of her life. I know what _that_ feels like," she scoffed. "I'm in."

Michael's head didn't raise, but his hand did. "Fi, I don't think-"

"Shush," she commanded, glancing back at him. "Sam and I can handle this. You rest that shoulder. Or I'll have to have another go at straightening it."

Michael's hand dropped. "Good luck, Sam."

Sam took a deep breath, then finished the beer. "Thanks."

"Oh relax," Fiona said brightly, her smile widening to worrying proportions. "It'll be _fun._"

Michael's head lifted. His eyes went round and wide, communicating an entire world of alarm. From the corner of his eye he caught Fiona looking over at him.

His face went back into the sheets quickly.

.

* * *

.

Fiona and Sam went up the well-kept path to the modest house, marvelling at the neat, happy picture of home life. Sam knocked on the door then waited with his hands in his pockets. Fiona looked around, a far-away look on her face.

The door was opened up from the inside. Raven-black hair and amused brown eyes looked out at them both. "Sam!" the woman gushed. "Oh, thanks for coming. Please, come in." She stepped back, opening the door wider. "Sean's not home yet. Perfect timing," she added.

Fiona looked at her from beyond the door. "Your accent… Dublin?"

"Yes it is," she said proudly, looking straight at Fiona. "Have you been there?"

"Off and on," she said quietly, slithering past her into the house. She walked into the front room, finding it just the kind of happy comfort that had been promised by the outside. Sam followed and the woman shut the door, coming into the front room after them.

"Oh where are my manners?" she said, tutting at herself. "Siobhan."

"Siobhan…?"

"Berkowski," she said with a smile, putting her hand out.

_Siobhan Berkowski_

_Client_

"Right," Fiona allowed under her breath. She cleared her throat. "Fiona Glenanne."

"You'd be Sam's Irish friend then?" Siobhan asked.

"Yes," she said. "I find it's simpler to sound more like these foreigners these days. Makes shopping so much easier."

"Tell me about it," Siobhan chuckled. "If Sean's home I get him to answer the phone - people understand _him_."

Fiona smiled. "So… Can you tell us what happened? What brought you to the States?"

"Sean," Siobhan shrugged. She waved a hand out and Sam and Fiona made themselves comfortable on the wide, soft sofa. A brown coffee table sat just in front, and beyond that, another two-man sofa that Siobhan herself sank into gratefully. "My father and I had a business in Clondalkin, near Dublin."

"Nice area," Fiona said.

"You know it?"

"I know… of a few banks in the area," she allowed.

"Oh," Siobhan said, clearly lost. "Well we dealt in flowers. Until Sean came in. He was this brash, loud American… I thought he was obnoxious," she smiled.

"And then you found out he worked with flowers too?" Sam asked.

"Yes. One day, when he came in to settle some orders with my father, he just… asked me on a date. Just like that." She chuckled. "I was surprised, to say the least. But I thought, hey, why not give him the benefit of the doubt, right? He was only in Ireland for six weeks anyway - if it didn't work out, then he'd be leaving. So we went out."

"And you fell in love with him," Fiona said, trying to keep a polite smile on her face.

"No - there was a… I slapped him and took his car home. It was when he came to my father's house the next morning, to get his car back, that I realised he'd just misheard something I said. Bit of a cultural misunderstanding." Siobhan looked at Fiona. "We dated. He left Ireland. We still kept in contact - phone calls, e-mails, Skype… Then my father passed away, and I was left with the business. I tried to keep it going - I did. But… it wasn't the same without him." She sighed, looking across to the net curtain on the windows. "America just seemed so clean, so new," she added.

Sam and Fiona exchanged a glance.

Fiona leant toward Siobhan, lacing her fingers. "Sam tells me some travel agency took all your money," she said. "What happened?"

"I saw this ad in the paper," she said, getting up and going to the bureau in the corner of the room. She rifled through it for a moment before producing a piece of newspaper. "It promised exotic holidays on a budget, so I went along. I wanted something special - we didn't get a honeymoon when we got married over a year ago." She carried the cutting over, passing it to Fiona.

"'A+ Holiday Destinations, Ltd. Your dreams are waiting for you to arrive'," Fiona read out. Her face rumpled in abject disapproval. "Sounds… delightful."

"I know, but it promised cheap holidays," Siobhan said quietly.

Fiona passed the paper to Sam. She looked at the woman carefully. "What happened when you went in?"

"I spoke to this nice bloke - Ben, his name was. He was friendly, there was no pressure, I liked the place. I went in about three times, discussing details and everything. He said if I could give him a deposit of nine thousand dollars, he'd put the package together for us. I thought it was a lot, but… but he said the balance wouldn't be much and I'd be securing a brilliant holiday for me and Sean. So… I did it. It went against all my instincts, but I did it," Siobhan said, putting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. "I was so stupid! But I just wanted time alone, with him, without any business or banks or phone calls or invoices or manila folders full of more work! He works so hard - all the time - and he needs to slow down, take a break."

"We've all been _there_," Fiona said quietly. From the corner of her eye she noticed Sam watching her. She cleared her throat. "Don't blame yourself. And we're going to get the money back."

"The important thing is that Sean doesn't find out about this until you _have_ got it back. Ok?" Sam said.

Siobhan nodded, brushing her hair from her cheek and looking at them both. "What do you need me to do?"

"We need you to tell us everything you can about these bastards," Fiona said, her voice somewhat harsh. "Then we'll go to work on them."

"-On getting your money back," Sam corrected quickly. He smiled determinedly. "What can you tell us?"

.

* * *

.

Fiona shoved open the metal door to Michael's loft, marching in and dropping her bag to the workbench. She looked over and found him sat at the wooden excuse for a kitchen table, a plethora of tiny wires and electronica scattered about under his black-smudged hands. One hand had two wires trapped in it, the other harbouring a soldering iron. He had his favourite lazy-day jeans on, a simple blue t-shirt not even tucked in.

"How'd it go?" he muttered, pre-occupied.

Sam came in through the door, carrying a manila folder of papers and a six-pack of beers. "Hey, Mikey. Delivery."

"In the fridge, Sam," Michael said, under his breath. He squinted, leaning down to solder two minuscule wires together.

Sam went round him to the fridge, sliding the six-pack inside. "Whatcha doing?" he asked, closing the fridge door and looking over the seated man's shoulder.

"Spare listening device," Michael muttered.

Sam looked over at Fiona, who raised her eyebrows and folded her arms in just the way that made her look like the kind of judge who judges judges. For a living. Sam noticed this and patted Michael on the shoulder, making him drop one of the wires. Michael closed his eyes in an attempt to rein in irritation. "You need to take a break, brother," Sam said in a loud voice. "Doing that all day will kill your eyesight."

Michael opened his eyes and made himself smile at Sam. "_Thank_ you, Sam, for your concern. Aren't you and Fi supposed to _be_ somewhere?"

Fiona came up to the table, looking at the single wire left in Michael's hand. "We talked to the client - nice lady. She gave us a load of info, and Sam - the amazing bloodhound that he is - tracked down some people we can start interrogating." She reached out and twisted the wire from his grip to inspect it.

"That's _great_," Michael said, with a wide, pasted-on smile that only looked half as forced as it actually was. "Are you going to start that now? Like, right now?" he asked, his eyes innocently hopeful.

"When we've worked out a battle plan," she said airily, going round the table to the fridge.

Michael slid the soldering iron into its cradle and picked up both wires, arranging them carefully in his left hand. He slid the soldering iron back out and again leant over to melt them together. "Well be careful, Fi. Call me if you need something."

She pulled the door open, picked up a yoghurt, and closed the door again. "I think we can handle a few scam artists in a holiday shop," she said, pulling the lid open on the pot. She turned and scrabbled round for a spoon, and then turned back to him.

"That was my last yoghurt," he sighed, resigned but still intent upon getting the wires soldered together before anything else could disturb him.

Fiona leant across him deliberately, her hair obscuring his vision. He simply waited whilst trying not to pout. But she set the yoghurt pot and spoon by his left hand, before pausing. "Eat something. And don't strain your eyes."

He drew in a breath to reply, but when he pulled his head back and up he found her eyes a few inches away. His words stalled.

She looked his face over for a long moment that turned into two.

"Well then," Sam said loudly, clearing his throat, "let's go through this intel, huh?"

Fiona's eyes ran to the V-necked t-shirt on Michael before she pulled out of his way. She whipped her hair over her shoulder, walking round the bench to her bag, still sitting on the long workbench under the window. "I only came to see if you had spare rounds for my nine millimetre," she said professionally.

"Top drawer," Michael said, watching her rip the aforementioned hiding place open.

She reached in and found a box, shaking it to make her smile. "Thanks. I'll get you some replacements later," she said, whisking her bag up and walking out. Sam followed quickly.

"Consider them a gift!" Michael called, as the door swung shut. He huffed, stretched his back, and then settled back down to the soldering job in his hands.

Until there was a loud electronic trilling. He frowned at the mobile phone on the workbench, then at his hands. The sound went on. He scowled fit to put the fear of Westen into any scam artist and set the soldering iron back in its cradle. He reached out with his right hand and picked up the phone, trapping it between his neck and shoulder. "Yeah, Ma." He listened to the voice from the other end and sighed. "It's not a grinder, it's a blender," he said clearly, trying to remain patient. "No, no no - don't put the-. Wait. I'm coming over. No - don't touch it. Not with the wire hanging out of the-. Ma-. _Ma!_ Will you listen to me? I'm coming over. Don't touch it."

He put the phone down, laid the wires on the table, and reached over. He unplugged the soldering iron and huffed, picking up his car keys and finding some trainers.

As he walked out and locked the front door, the untouched pot of yoghurt simply watched, judging him in its own pasteurised way.

.

* * *

And we're off! Thanks for reading this far!


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

.

Fiona and Sam sat in her blue Hyundai, watching the small office from down the street.

"So get this," Sam said, from the passenger seat. He flicked open the manila folder and went through the pages. "According to a friend of mine, the man Siobhan was talking about, Ben Anderson? He's like a premium level scumbag. He's got a rap sheet longer than my left leg. Worked admin for a chop-shop but turned on his buddies to escape jail. Then he was implicated in a string of break-ins in Louisiana - that racked up nearly half a million in stolen property."

"And he 'escaped' to Florida?" Fiona snorted.

"After _that_ he laid low, but people-who-know-people think he did it on money he scammed from a bunch of retirees down in Boca."

"Charming. And you're telling me _this_ is his latest job, his…" -she paused to pluck a thin brochure from the dashboard- "… 'modern, spacious office wherein you'll find your holiday of a lifetime'?"

"Apparently," Sam said.

"Oh look," she said, reading through it carefully. "It says they specialise in _exotic_ lands. Do you think they do Thailand?"

"You want to go to Thailand?" Sam asked, surprised.

"Of course I don't," she scoffed. She looked back across the street. "Let's do this. The sooner we get a jump on our gig here, the sooner Siobhan will get her money back." She looked up, lifting binoculars to see down the street. "Besides, this doesn't look like it's going to be that hard."

"Well hello," Sam said from behind his binoculars. "Look who it is."

A man in a blue suit came out of the front door. His perfect, short brown hair and highly shined shoes spoke of refinement and a cheerful _laissez-faire_ for the world at large. He turned to the window, straightening up a banner.

"He's the man in charge?" Fiona asked.

"That's him."

The man turned and looked across the street, one hand shining down the side of his hair.

"Bastard," Fiona tutted.

"I think you mean 'scam artist scumbag'," Sam corrected.

The man put his hands in his pockets, smiling to himself, and for a moment he looked toward Fiona's car.

_Ben Anderson_

_Bastard / scam artist scumbag_

"There are two more men in there with him - they don't look the polished con-man type. Who are they?" Fiona asked.

"No-Neck there is Max Ford - ex-marine. Ugly Ears next to him is Brian Marchess - used to be a doorman for a security company until he was done for fraud."

"Perfect," Fiona said. "How do you want to do this?"

"You're asking _me_?"

"Well I think we should just come back here after dark and blow a hole in their safe, and take what belongs to Siobhan. But I don't think you'd agree with me," she smiled sweetly.

"You got that right. Why don't we just mosey on in there, say hi, pick up brochures and pretend we're interested in a holiday? We could get a good look at their security set-up, work out how to do this all slick-like," he reasoned.

"So we could come back after dark and blow a hole in their safe?"

"Fi," Sam warned. "There's no need. We should just scam them out of money."

"And if that doesn't work, _then_ we come back after dark and blow a hole in their safe?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not promising anything."

"That's a good job - men never do make good on their promises," she said, as if to herself. Sam frowned at her in a way that conveyed a world of worry. She simply opened the door and climbed out, revealing high Jimmy Choo wedges and combat jeans. Her sky blue, skinny t-shirt was covered in her loose hair as she turned back to the car and picked up her large bag. "Glad I brought this one today," she said. "It oozes money."

"Whatever," Sam said, closing the passenger door. "Let's go."

"Oh, if anyone asks? We are _not_ together," she said firmly, locking the car.

Sam raised his eyebrows, his palms up in surrender. "Fine by me, lady."

She pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder and walked off. Sam checked his watch and followed.

.

* * *

.

Fiona put a hand on the glass door and pushed it open, walking into the plush, air-conditioned showroom. Cardboard stand-ups of elephants and palm trees were dotted about, with heavy brochures featuring sun-soaked destinations stacked on wire racks by their bases. She sauntered over and picked one up, flicking through it casually.

"Can I help you there, miss?" came a friendly voice.

She turned and found Anderson, in his blue suit, watching her. "Oh, yes," she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I need to organise a holiday for me and my boyfriend. He works too hard," she added, her face one of disapproval.

Ben Anderson looked over her shoulder toward Sam. "Then he does a good impression of looking relaxed," he smiled.

Sam, oblivious to their conversation, just waved. Fiona smiled at him, then Anderson. "Not him. He's a friend." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Actually… he just got out of rehab a few days ago. I'm his conscience. You understand," she whispered conspiratorially.

Anderson smiled. "I see. So. Where is it you're looking to go? We have all kinds of holidays here."

"Well I saw these adorable elephants on the NatGeo channel, and I thought, Marty would just _love_ a place with elephants."

"Marty?"

"My boyfriend," she said. One finger went into her hair and she twisted it round slowly. "He needs something to make him relax, make him stop worrying about things he can't change. Y'know?"

"Sounds like he doesn't deserve you," Anderson smiled, his brown eyes watching her finger.

"Anyway. Can I take this? Have a look at the elephants? I want to think about it. -But I mustn't tell Marty. I want it to be a surprise," she gushed.

"Sure," he said suavely, waving a hand at the rest of the open-place shop. "If there's anything else you like - we have swimming with dolphins too." His eyes darted to her bag, then back to her. "Or why not get him his holiday with elephants, but somewhere you could also go shopping? We have the best selection of mixed breaks. For a little extra, we can even tailor-make your holiday just for you."

"Wow - that would be easier," she smiled. "Do you have a name card? Could I call you if I have any questions?"

"Absolutely," Anderson beamed. "Any time you want to check anything at all, you give me a bell and we can help you on your way to a dream destination." He pulled a white card out of the breast pocket of his suit. "That's me, Ben Anderson. -Ben."

"Thank you, Ben. I'll be in touch." Fiona looked round him to Sam. "I think we're done here," she called.

Sam looked round immediately, pointing to a pile of leaflets. "You sure? Look, they do booze-cruises!" he said gleefully.

Fiona looked back at Anderson, stepping closer. "It's a day-to-day struggle," she whispered.

"I can see that," Anderson said.

Fiona smiled at him, popped the heavy brochure into her bag, and went to Sam. Her arm looped through his and she dragged him to the door. "Come along. I have to read these somewhere Marty won't see them," she said with a wide smile.

Sam said nothing, simply tipping a finger at Anderson before he and Fiona disappeared out of the door.

She let go of his arm as they walked along the same side of the street.

She stopped opposite her car. "Well he's the slimiest, fake-friendliest con-artist I've ever met," she observed.

"Paranoid one, too," Sam said as they checked the street for traffic. They began to cross. "Cameras in all four corners of the place, _and_ another one aimed just at the door. Who knows what they've got out back covering their safe."

"That's why we should go in through the wall," Fiona said innocently.

"Fi - not yet. We get you close enough to _take_ Siobhan's money from this guy."

"Or just beat him with a tyre iron until he tells us the combination to his safe," she shot back. Then she huffed, pausing to pull her car keys from her bag. "But I'm really low on C-4 right now. We'll have to go with the scam approach first. We already have a flimsy cover - we just need to make him think I have more money to spend than I do. Then he might let me in the back room to sign contracts."

Sam snapped his fingers, pointing at her. "And _that's_ when we pick his safe and call the cops so he can explain where the rest of it came from?"

"You're catching on," she grinned, opening the car door and getting in.

.

* * *

.

They drove back to Michael's loft, finding the Charger gone. They went in through the front door and Sam closed it behind them. Fiona dropped her bag to the workbench, looking over to see the soldering iron and partially-built listening device out on the surface.

And the yoghurt, still open and unloved.

She huffed as she walked over, picking up the now-warm food and chucking it straight in the bin. "Honestly," she complained. "It's like he does it on purpose!"

"Maybe something came up," Sam shrugged. He went to the chair by the bed and got comfortable. "So where do we start?" he asked.

Fiona sat on the bed opposite him, pulling her shoes off. She shifted round until she was lying on her stomach, her hands under her chin and her elbows in the bedspread. "We go with me trying to get a _surprise_ holiday package for my boyfriend Marty, and you being the friend."

"Sounds… too-many-eggs-in-one-basket risky," Sam said. "How about you go in there as the girl trying to get that holiday, and I wait outside. If anything goes wrong, I'll just come in blazing."

Fiona cocked an eyebrow at him. "As much as I love a man who knows just the right moment to shoot, I think it'd be better if we didn't use guns - _yet_."

"You feeling alright?"

"Shut up, Sam. All he took from Siobhan was nine thousand dollars; hardly seems worth using a gun on someone used to half a million dollar scores," she scowled.

Sam nodded to himself, turning something over in his mind. "You think he's got more Siobhans dangling?"

"I'm thinking a lot more. Like a dozen," she tutted. "I want to thoroughly humiliate this arsehole before we take all his money. It won't be difficult; did you get a load of how confident he is?"

"If you think so," Sam shrugged. He looked at the manila file and the brochures in his hand. "Well I'm ready when you are."

She looked at her watch. "I need to drop home - an errand to run," she tutted. "Can we adjourn this till tomorrow?"

"You busy?" Sam asked, surprised.

"I have a sale to make."

"Fi - this better not be guns."

"It's no business of yours if it is," she said defensively. "Why do you care?"

"Cos every time Mike asks me where you get your new equipment from, I lie and say I don't know," he said, sounding very hard done-by.

"Ngaw, Sam. I never knew you cared," she winked, rolling off the bed. "So, tomorrow morning, then?"

"Not too early - I got to accompany The Lady shopping first," Sam said with a wide smile.

"For you or for her, this time?" Fiona asked archly.

"All me, baby," he grinned.

"I don't want to know." She hauled her shoes back on and they left the loft, Fiona in front, as they went down the steps. The Charger was just pulling in as they reached the bottom. Michael got out of the driver's side, bringing a large brown paper bag with him.

"Michael. We're moving on that scam tomorrow," Fiona said. "You're _supposed_ to be resting that shoulder."

He lifted the brown paper bag. "My mom's blender had a... user malfunction," he said. "And I had to get more yoghurt."

"Then stay in and eat it," she commanded. "And no more squinting at stupidly tiny listening devices!"

"I'll just be reading your latest issue of Guns & Ammo then," he said with a shit-eating grin.

She pointed at him. "Don't test me. Sam? Let's go," she said.

"Have fun scamming people!" Michael called after the two of them. "Call me if you need something!"

"We won't!" Fiona called back.

.

* * *

.

The clock was just ticking past two thirty in the afternoon as Fiona pushed the glass door to the office open. She paused to give the men time to fully appreciate her white dress. Flouncy yet sheer in all the right places, it enjoyed their attention as she pushed her ginormous straw hat back slightly on her head. Her impossibly tall Jimmy Choo's took her up to the desk, whereupon Ben Anderson nearly fell out of his chair as he struggled to race to his feet.

"Good afternoon," he managed.

Fiona smiled at him. "Hello again. Do you remember me? I came in yesterday."

"Of course I do!" Anderson grinned. "You took some brochures for a holiday for you and… Marty, right?"

"Oh, did I," she gushed. "I _flipped_ over the Thailand one - the one with elephants. But I thought about what you said. I need some quality shopping time too. I mean, Miami is fine and everything but I've heard Thailand is just full of one-of-a-kind purchases."

"Well then, if you'd like to take a seat, I'll see what we can do about making your dreams a reality."

Fiona glided round the side of the desk, before she looked at the other two men, Ford and Marchess, loitering in suits at the back of the room. She turned on Anderson, bending closer. "Do you mind if we go somewhere more personal?" she asked. "I mean, I'd hate for my private finances to be all over your front of shop."

"Of course," Anderson said, going to a door at the back of the room. "I was just going to suggest that we use my own office. Please, follow me."

"Thank you," she said, picking up her bag and slinking her way past him through the open door.

Anderson looked back at the two men. "Take a load off," he winked. "This one will be easy."

.

* * *

.

Sam shifted uneasily in the driver's seat of Fiona's Hyundai. He raised the binoculars again, spying the two men sitting around the front office. He watched Fiona and Anderson disappear through a door in the back.

"Don't do anything stupid, Fi," Sam said under his breath. He felt in his pocket for his phone, then put the bluetooth earpiece into his left ear. "Not that I don't trust you, Fi," he muttered. "But better safe than sorry."

.

* * *

.

"That is marvellous!" Fiona gasped, clapping her hands in delight. "Oh, Marty is going to _love_ this! Business class flights, the Sheraton, elephants, a boat ride - and shopping for me. Oh, you really have inspired me," she cried.

"I'm glad we could help," Anderson said, sitting back in his chair. He looked around the small office, with its single wooden table and rather expensive matching chairs. "We pride ourselves on getting the dream just right."

Fiona looked across the table at him. "Well it's perfect," she said. "I must book this right now. How much?" she demanded.

"Well, Miss Kearn, you don't have to pay the balance now," he said, but he was smiling ever wider. "You could leave us a deposit, and then the balance would be next to nothing."

"Fine," she said. She picked up her bag, rummaging through. "What kind of a deposit do you need?"

"For something like this, a tailor-made activity week… we're looking at a _total_ price of fifteen thousand dollars," he said.

Fiona didn't even blink. "Then how much do you need for a deposit?"

"Well, something like ten thousand would be fine," he said.

She nodded, then pulled out her purse. "Oh, rats!" she blurted. "I would have that with me, but I bought those adorable shoes this morning…" She looked at him across the table. "I'll have to pop to the bank, then come back. I won't be long." She got up smartly.

Anderson rose too. "I'd be pleased to come with you, Miss Kearn."

"Oh that's hardly necessary - I go to the bank all the time," she smiled.

"I'd hate to think of you walking around Miami with so much cash on you. It's really not safe," he said.

"Oh. Well… if you're sure."

"Quite. It's the gentlemanly thing to do," he pressed.

Fiona dropped her purse back into the bag, swinging it over her shoulder. "You're so right. May I use your washroom before we go?"

"Sure. This way," he said, going to the back wall of the office. He opened a door and waved her through.

"Thank you," she smiled. She began to walk to it but her bag caught on the table and it fell. It smacked into the carpet, letting all manner of ladies' necessities roll out onto the floor. "Oh! I'm so sorry! How clumsy of me!" she cried.

"No harm done," he said charmingly, even as she gracefully crouched, her knees together to her right, her hands snatching at the items on the floor.

Anderson crouched too, helping her with lipsticks and mirrors. She smiled at him, but as he looked back down to see what he was picking up, her eyes went past him to the safe in the wall. Her eyes narrowed on the three locks dotted around the central handle. He looked up at her and she hurriedly went back to repairing all her items to her seemingly cavernous bag.

"Thank you _so_ much," she said.

"It's the least a man could do for a lady," he smiled.

She canted her head demurely, squeezing past him and going through the open door to the washroom. She closed the door gently in his face. Turning and finding a slick, expensive toilet and matching fittings around her, she whipped out her phone. '_Driving me to First National Bank of South Miami - Sunset Drive. Get me out_', she typed. She pressed 'send' and then splashed water from the sink into the toilet. She flushed it, dried her hands on the small towels, then tidied her hair in the mirror. Her phone vibrated and she checked the message: '_Done_.' She deleted all the messages and pushed the phone into her bag. Straightening her hat, she let herself out of the smallest room.

Anderson was by the far door. She smiled at him and then walked over, striding past him to the main office and the front door beyond.

.

* * *

.

Sam pressed the speed-dial on his phone, screwing the bluetooth earpiece further into his ear, if such a thing were possible. The line clicked. "Mike?"

"Yeah, Sam. What is it?" came the drowsy voice.

"Fi's in trouble. She's being driven to the First National Bank of South Miami - the one on Sunset Drive. Looks like these bozos are planning to look over her shoulder as she withdraws money she doesn't have."

"I'm on my way," Michael snapped, as if kicked. "What's her cover?"

"You have to know it wasn't my idea-"

"What _is_ it?"

"She's this rich Miami girl - Frazer Kearn. She's got a boyfriend, Marty, who likes holidays with elephants. He doesn't know she's booking the holiday with this Anderson character. That's all I know."

There was a pause on the line. Then Michael cleared his throat. "First National Bank of South Miami on Sunset Drive?"

"You got it."

"I'll beat you there. Go along with it, Sam."

"Will do." Sam cut the connection, watching as three men went to a large black sedan by the kerb of the office. Sam started the car and checked the traffic as Fiona slid into the back seat of their larger vehicle. Anderson closed the door for her, smiling all the while. Then he went round to the passenger seat and got in. When the car pulled out smoothly, Sam was just a few cars behind.

.

* * *

_Thanks for reading this far! And thanks to everyone who's left comments. Gold dust!_


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

.

The First National Bank of South Miami was watching the late afternoon traffic flow past without incident. Large, square, low and brown, it simply enjoyed the heat and sunshine, as was its wont. It noticed a black sedan pull up in the car park, but in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't too exciting.

Until a woman stepped out of the rear door. She straightened up, arranged her hat and bag, and strode around the car. Three men got out of the car too, one pausing to lock the vehicle up before following her to the entrance. She pushed the door open and walked in.

Fiona glanced at the two tellers on duty, and then looked around the large, open service area. She stole a look past Anderson and the two men by the wall to check the parking lot.

_When you're a spy, you know that waiting for back-up - if you have it - can be the longest time of your life. There are many ways to stall until back-up arrives, but one of the most reliable ways is to rope a third party into your play for extra time; if you get the right person, very often they end up dragging something out much more successfully than you could, and the beauty of it is, you may not have to do much to encourage them._

Fiona waved her hands out in frustration. As if by magic, a customer service assistant appeared out of nowhere. Fiona sniffed, adjusted her hat, and walked up to him. "Now look here," she began sternly. "I come in here every month and I'm _still_ being treated like a new customer. I've had my account for five years. Why haven't I been upgraded to premium customer status?"

The man, both older and shorter than her, blinked and his mouth opened uncertainly. "Uhm - could I have your name, miss?"

"Kearn," she announced. "Frazer Kearn - of the Boca Raton Kearns?"

"Oh, well, if there's been an oversight then I do apologise, miss - maybe we could have a look at your customer account."

She turned and looked back at Anderson. "I hope you don't mind waiting, Ben. All this will be cleared up and then I can make a withdrawal."

Anderson shared a guarded look with the other two men, but then forced a smile. "Of course, Miss Kearn. Whatever you need."

She turned back to the customer service assistant. Her gaze caught sight of the wedding ring on his finger. She looked him in the eye. "Well? What have you got against single women making their own money?"

"I - well - nothing, I assure you," the man stammered. "We are pleased to serve all kind of customers here."

"All 'kinds'? What do you mean by that?" she demanded. The man's eyes bulged as he tried to think of something to say. "Do you even _have_ a woman boss in this place?" she went on.

"Uh - yes, actually," he stammered. "My wife. She's worked here for fifteen years - in this very branch."

"Oh I see," Fiona fumed, rocking her weight back on her high heels. "And I suppose she fetches your coffee and does all your filing?"

"Actually, she's the first woman to be the manager of this place," he went on proudly. Fiona resisted the temptation to interrupt him and he gladly got into his stride. "In 1998, she was the first woman to win the Best Banking Brain award - run by the then-branch manager-"

The door to the bank flew open and Michael stormed in, his car keys in his hand and a look of anguish on his face. Fiona turned and glanced - then did a double-take that resulted in her staring.

Michael pointed at Anderson off to his left. "Is that him?" he demanded, on the verge of a deluge of man-tears.

"What?" Fiona whispered, shocked.

"_Is - that - him?_" Michael repeated at the top of his lungs. The entire bank froze as if in fright. Twenty pairs of eyes latched onto him, entranced. "This is the man you've been seeing behind my back?" Michael cried.

"M-Marty - no, I-"

"After everything we've been through?" Michael shouted, his eyes bright red and way too moist. He advanced on her, grabbing her by the upper arms. "After that night at The Palace?" he pressed. Fiona's expression went from lost to confident. Michael dragged in a deep, anguished breath. "That night at The Palace, when you _swore_ you'd never-"

She wrenched herself free, pulling her dress straight. "Control yourself, Marty!" she commanded, her face one of open disapproval. "People are watching!"

"I don't care!" he raged. "You're cheating on me? _Again?_"

"Marty - not here!" she shouted, her eyes darting round the shocked counter staff.

"I gave you the best of _everything!_" he railed, his eyes on the ceiling as he flailed clenched fists in despair.

"Marty!"

"My house, my life - my _yoghurt_-"

"Marty!" She marched up to him and slapped him. Making sure it didn't actually have all of her weight behind it was hard, but she managed it.

He recoiled, a hand to his cheek in pain. She stared into his large, red eyes.

"Listen to me," she said sternly. "This man is helping me book a holiday for you and me, Marty. I am _not_ seeing _anyone_ behind your back. How dare you!" She paused to look him up and down in angry disgust. "Who's told you these lies?" she seethed.

"Uh-." Michael blinked. "-Sam?" he hazarded.

"Sam! That lying drunkard!" she spat. "You know he secretly fancies me himself!"

"He does?" Michael blurted. Fiona's eyebrow twitched. "Y-yeah! He does!" he cried.

She put her hands to his face. "Now take a deep breath and slow down," she said quietly. "He lied. I am not seeing anyone else."

"Promise?" Michael asked, in a very, _very_ small voice that shook all of Fiona's acting resolve.

"Idiot," she breathed. She kissed him.

A collective '_ngaw_' went up from the counter staff and their customers. Anderson and his two friends were less than enthusiastic. Anderson came forward, aiming to tap Fiona on the shoulder.

To say Fiona ignored his approach would be to say that she understood that something existed _beyond_ the man she was kissing. The customer service assistant stepped up quickly. He put a hand on Anderson's shoulder. When Anderson looked at him, he simply shook his head and urged him back.

Fiona eased Michael away. "Quick exit," she whispered.

She waited, but it seemed that either Michael's feet were suddenly glued to the floor, or hers were. She placed a hand on his t-shirt right in the middle of his chest and pushed gently. "Let's go," she said imperiously.

Michael stumbled back a step, then grabbed her wrist from his shirt. He turned and pulled her out of the bank. Fiona grabbed her hat to keep it on her head, whooping with excitement.

The door to the bank swung shut. Everyone looked around, realising the floor show was over. The muttering began as tellers gossiped, the stamping and filing restarted, and Anderson found himself standing in the middle of the bank with no customer and, more importantly, no money.

.

* * *

.

Fiona laughed fit to burst as she raced up the steps to Michael's loft. She exploded in through his front door as he caught her up, their two cars parked one behind the other underneath.

"I haven't had that much fun since we _were_ at The Palace pub!" she laughed, pulling her hat off and flinging it across the room. It sailed across the place like a joyous frisbee, landing on the edge of Michael's bed.

Michael pushed the front door to, dropping his car keys to the bench. "I take it the day didn't go as planned?" he asked. He leant back against the wood.

Fiona turned and marched right up to him, leaning into him and grinning. "How do you know that?"

"We _are_ talking about getting access to that guy's safe in his office, right?" he asked, putting his hands on the bench but sliding them further along the surface to avoid touching her dress.

"Of course." She placed her hands on the wood either side of him. "Maybe I let it go wrong on purpose," she purred, bringing her face closer to his. "Maybe it was all an excuse to watch you _perform_."

"Fi-"

"Oh _Michael_," she growled in frustration. She lifted a hand, running it into the hair at the back of his head. "_You_ brought up that night at The Palace, not me."

His hands went to her sides and she let herself smile. He looked down at her. "As a codeword so you knew what I'd do next."

"You could have picked _anything_. But you didn't."

"It fitted the cover at the time," he reasoned, his face a maddening mix of serenity and patience. His hands tightened and she was lifted a few inches clear of him. She forced her hands to go back to the table behind him.

The front door opened wider. "So Anderson looked really pissed, huh?" Sam chuckled, coming through. He closed the entrance and turned to see Fiona leaning Michael up against the bench. "Woah - ok! I can go - uhm - be somewhere else if this is - y'know, awkward-"

Fiona tilted her head at Michael. He pursed his lips. She huffed through her nose and twisted away, stalking across the room. She flumped down on the bed and looked at her shoes.

Sam and Michael exchanged a glance that was all about close shaves.

"So… anyways," Sam said in his best, most cheerful voice, "did we get anything out of that little jaunt?"

"I noticed he only had _one_ camera in his back office. It's pointed directly at the safe - which I got a look at," Fiona said, her chin now balanced on her fist. "It's got three keys to it. There's no way you could pick that in under eight minutes. Not even Michael could do it inside five. But we wouldn't have to, because it's small enough to move, probably a hundred, a hundred and fifty pounds. It has a safety on the back, if I'm not mistaken, so we just need to trip that and we open it easily."

"Why _three_ keys?" Sam asked. "Seems a bit, I don't know, paranoid."

"How many partners are there?" Michael asked innocently.

Sam pointed at him in inspiration. "Yeah yeah - three. So what, they got one key each?"

"They don't trust each other? How sad," Fiona mused. "What if one of them, say… _Anderson_… were to steal what's in the safe, so he got it all?"

"How many scams have they been running recently? How much do you think is in there?" Sam asked. "I mean, they're not exactly bilking people for hundreds of thousands here."

"He wanted ten grand off me," Fiona said. "He took nine from Siobhan."

"Maybe he's staying under the radar, taking smaller marks," Michael offered.

"So what do we do with the extra cash in the safe?" Sam asked.

"We… get him caught with the money - minus the nine thousand he owes Siobhan. The police will sort it out, get it returned," Michael said.

"That's if the weasel admits to any of it," Fiona pointed out. "If he doesn't keep books, how will they know who to give it to?"

"Maybe," Sam said slowly, "if he thought the other two dousche-keteers were after him, he'd give it up to the police pretty fast."

Michael began to smile. "I like the way you think, Sam. We open the safe, take Siobhan's money back, and dump it at Anderson's house. A tip from Fi to him will make him come running. We need the _other_ two to get to the office and see the safe's been opened. They'll assume it's him, find him at home - and so will the police. Job done."

"Well… while you two were busy playing Desperate Housewives, I was downloading old realty adds for that place. Guess what?" Sam grinned.

"It used to be a yoghurt shop?" Michael hazarded.

"Better," Sam chuckled. "It's a standard rent-an-office setup, nothing fancy."

"Which means it wouldn't take much to pick the locks - if you're right," Fiona said.

Sam clapped his hands, rubbing. "What do you say? A little nighttime robbery?"

"I'm in," Fiona said as she raised a palm. "It's not blowing a hole in the wall, but it'll do."

Michael's head tilted as he thought about something. "Fi… Remember we have to get the safe _out_ of the wall to trip the safety on the back," he smiled.

"I'll get the last of my C-4!" she gushed, leaping off the bed. She stopped short at the front door. "Wait - 'we'?"

"If I stay here I'll have to answer my mom's calls about her new blender," he sighed.

"At midnight?"

"I'm pretty sure moms live in their own time zone," he replied.

She smiled. "Then get your best combat gear on." She went to the door, flinging it open. "Hmm. I _do_ love a man in combat gear. It's so much fun getting him _out_ of it." She bounced out and disappeared.

Sam looked at Michael - just looked. He shook his head.

"I'll help Fi get some gear together," Sam said, going to the door. "Let's see - usual storming-in type stuff. Anything else?"

"Anderson's home address, and if you can get it, contact numbers for his two goons."

"Mikey please," Sam said, affronted. "This is me." He went for the front door. "You just think about how bad it could have gone this afternoon if you hadn't been there. It could have turned into a hostage situation if she'd started shooting. It's a damn good thing you two knew how to handle it." He backed out of the door and it closed silently behind him.

Michael turned, put his hands to the workbench, and leant on them with all his weight. His eyes closed.

_Then_ he smiled.

.

* * *

.

The street was quiet. A dog barked here, a couple strolled along there, but overall, the road was clear of rolling traffic. The Charger chugged down the street and then turned up the tiny side road by the office. It kept to the edge of the alley, slinking under trees rather than use the middle of the road.

_CCTV cameras are a great way to keep an eye on everyone that comes and goes. However, they're only as good as where you put them. Top of the range crystal-lens cameras are state-of-the-art in surveillance - the pictures you get can be more HD than the USA Network - but if you don't cut back the trees that grow around them, you may as well have them switched off._

The Charger stopped and three people piled out. Dressed in black, two of them had matching caps to hide their features. The smallest person had something like a quiver on her back, the other two carrying coils of rope and a small duffle. They moved nearly silently further up the alley. They kept under the treeline until they were opposite the rear edge of the office building. The smallest member turned to the tree behind her, shinnying up it like a squirrel. She edged around and yanked on the black cable to the back of the camera. The red light went out and she slid down again to jump to the packed dirt that made up the alleyway.

The three of them ran across the road. They slid around the rear edge of the building and waited in the darkness. Michael tapped Fiona on the shoulder and she unzipped a pocket on her combats, finding small tools and getting to work. Sam edged in front of Michael to bring out a small PCB with connectors attached. He pulled open the panel under the door alarm keypad and played with wires for a moment. And then another one.

"Ready?" Fiona whispered.

"Not yet," he grumped. He plugged in the connectors, listening.

"Hurry."

"Give me a second, lady." Finally he appeared pleased. He looked up and closed the panel, nodding to her.

Fiona's two lockpicks clicked and the door handle jumped slightly. She put her tools back in her combats, zipped them safely in, and then opened the door. She had a small MagLite in her hand, twisting it on as she advanced slowly into the back room. Michael stole in after her and shone his torch around.

Sam came in behind him and closed the door softly. He took a quick look around too. "Storeroom," he whispered. "Office?"

Fiona was already kneeling by the only other way out, her lockpicks hard at work. She cursed something as Michael shone his torch down at her hands.

"What?" he whispered.

"This one's - a little - stubborn," she huffed. She wrenched and the lock gave a click. As did one of her picks. "Oh hell - I'll need another new one." She withdrew the length of metal, finding the end had indeed broken off.

"I'll get you a whole set if you can open this door sometime tonight," Michael urged.

She didn't even look up at him. Her hands went back to the single intact pick still in the lock, and she manoeuvred it around for a few seconds. The door handle gave a slight jump and she looked up with a smile. "Hardly necessary."

He stepped back with his torch and she got up, opening the door carefully. Pushing her black bandana up her forehead just a little, she peeked in as Michael did too. She looked above her and he looked down at her. She pulled back out of the doorway and pulled the door nearly shut. He leant against the back of the door, lifting both hands to jut round the edge. His torch was in his left, giving his right something to lean on - his right that held a small black gun.

_People think the best way to put out a camera is to break it, but this creates noise, spreads glass or a replacement material around the floor for you to walk on and make __more__ noise, or simply alerts anyone watching the feed that someone stood in front of it and broke the lens. A much simpler way is to rely on physics. Take a pair of headphones that use neodymium speakers and pull them out. They're small, lightweight, and made of very powerful magnets. Tape them back-to-back and you have a small interference device that will make a budget-to-mid-market surveillance camera malfunction. All any viewer will see is an annoying rolling picture that cannot be steadied. Instead of reaching for the phone and calling the police, he'll waste time driving over to the shop to fix a suspect unit. Depending on the location, you'll have a lot more time to get in and do what you want to do, with the added bonus of the arrivals __not__ being the police._

He fired. A small, tethered projectile flew up and across the room. It suckered itself to the wall, directly above a camera pointed at the wall to his right. The small dart supported a long string and an inch-square box hanging from the sucker. It swished with momentum, taking it across the top of the camera.

Michael drew back with the torch, leaning on the doorjamb to watch Fiona. She checked her watch by torchlight, waiting. After a full thirty seconds she pointed round the door. He swept around it and checked the camera; the red light on top was now beeping in helplessness. He snapped on the lights before going to the safe door. Sam hurried in as soon as the lights went up and between the three of them, they had a thin layer of C-4 laid around the edges in under a minute. Fiona gestured the men back and they retreated. She checked she had a trigger switch with the safety shield _over_ the exposed button before she pushed a tiny blasting cap into the edge of the plastic explosive. Then she upended the table, Michael and Sam helping her heft it upright to lean it against the safe door. They put their gloved palms to the surface.

She got behind them, lifting the trigger switch. "Ready?" she whispered.

They nodded and turned their heads to the side.

She pressed the button.

.

* * *

.

_Yes, I made up the neodymium magnets manoeuvre. I've never tried it, but after extensive SamWinchestering the internet, the science appears to be sound. Anyone who remembers what happened to VHS tapes that had been stood next to speakers for too long will know how I came up with that one._

_._

**Thanks for reading this far! Your reviews are really making my year!**


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

.

A rather mild _foom!_ pushed against Michael and Sam's hands. Dust and grit billowed out in huge clouds, making the two men cough. They moved back and brought the table with them. Sam shifted it out of the way as Michael was pulling his black cap straight, inspecting the blast.

Fiona put a hand on his back, peering round his shoulder. "Well?" she asked.

"Perfect, Fi." He put his hands to the gap in the wall, testing the four-inch trench all the way around where the blast had shaken it loose from both the plaster in the wall and its foundations. "Now all we have to do is get it out."

"Hang on," Fiona said, coming forward and dusting off the lower half. She grabbed at what they had thought was the wall, finding it come away too easily. "Oh great," she complained. "A false front! This is much bigger than I thought."

"Do we still need to get it out?" Michael asked.

"Yes," she sighed. "The safety's on the back. Once I trip that, we can open it."

They stood back as Sam brought out what looked like a cat o' nine tails. He straightened it out to reveal something like a spider's web made of rock-climbing-grade rope. He spread it over the safe as Michael unclipped a length of rope from the back of his utility belt. Fiona slipped the long canvas quiver off her back and slid out five metal rollers. She placed them on the floor directly under the lip the safe would have to fall from.

She stood back and Michael pulled the table over, climbing on top and pushing the false ceiling up. A tile gave and he put his hands through. He grabbed his torch and shoved it in his mouth to see above him. Then he took the rope and looped it over the structural beam. He threw the end down to Sam. He caught it and threaded it through the handles on the web, winding it round and throwing the end back to Michael. He pushed it over the structural support, took the MagLite from his mouth and jumped off the table. He and Sam moved it out of the way and then turned to the rope ends hanging from the ceiling.

"Ready?" Michael asked, looking across at Sam.

"As you are," he grinned.

They heaved down on the two rope ends. The safe creaked but did not move. They paused, looked at each other, and then tried again. Again the safe did not move.

"Come on boys - put your backs into it," Fiona grinned, her fists on her hips.

"That's a three hundred and fifty pound safe!" Sam protested.

"Are you telling me you can't get it up?" she asked sweetly.

Sam's chin jutted out and his eyebrows rammed down so fast Michael feared they'd incur a speeding ticket.

"Fi," Michael said quietly. She looked at him. He shook his head.

She shrugged and stood back, folding her arms. "Hurry up then."

Michael looked at Sam. "Feet," he said, nodding to Sam's boots.

This time they jumped, catching the rope a little higher. They brought their feet off the floor. Their combined weight shunted the safe up far enough to make it slide forward. It inched toward the rollers.

"A bit more! I just need to reach around the back and this'll all be over," Fiona smiled. "Come on, boys. Bounce or something."

Sam and Michael, dangling from the ropes like firemen caught in a training exercise, shared a harassed look before they watched each other for timing. Then they heaved on the ropes, causing them to move up - and let their weight drop. The safe jerked forward - just an inch shy of the first roller.

Fiona watched avidly. "Oh this is too cute - I have my own performing monkeys," she grinned. She clapped her gloved hands. "Again, boys!"

Sam and Michael resisted the temptation to look at each other. Instead they simply heaved and dropped, heaved and dropped. The safe walked itself forward, out of the gap. It plopped onto the first roller. Fiona clapped, grinning. They kept hefting their combined weight up and down on the rope, until eventually the safe was completely free and sitting on the rollers.

Sam and Michael let of the ropes all too gratefully. Getting some breath back, they waited as Fiona unwound the rope and went about removing the web, too. She knelt down and squirmed her upper body around the back of the safe quickly, feeling around. The men put their hands on their knees, waiting.

She shuffled around, cursed something possibly in gaelic, and then shifted back out with a face that spoke of Death by Pointy Objects.

"What?" Sam asked.

She wiped her gloved hands together, then pushed back behind the safe, her right hand sweeping all over the rear side. "Oh you son of a bitch," she growled.

"What, Fi?" Michael urged.

She inched back out and sat back on her heels. "It can't be opened without the keys."

"What?" Sam snapped.

"You said this kind of safe had a safety," Michael intoned.

"Yes, Michael, I did - they come with safeties _on the back_. If someone machines the wheel off before they sell it, there's nothing I can do about it, is there?" she snapped.

"You do realise," Sam said, "that we're never going to be able to lift that again."

"You said judging by the door it was small, that the whole safe would be about a hundred and fifty pounds," Michael said. He gave a huff that Fiona knew had everything to do with pain and how he thought it unnecessary to share how bad it really hurt.

"How was I to know the bastard would have a ripped-off safe _without_ a safety on the back?" she said defensively. She noticed he wheeled his shoulder back and round slowly as she turned back to the safe. "He's as stupid as he is cruel."

"Can you crack it, Fi?" Michael asked.

"Like I said before: _not_ in the time we have, not without my safe-cracking equipment. I could blow it-"

"Too noisy," Sam complained.

"Well how else are we going to do this?" she asked him. "Did _you_ bring a metal cutter and some CO2 foam?"

"Must have left them in my other pants," Sam shot back.

Her mouth squirrelled to one side in disapproval. Michael put a gloved hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him.

"I know you don't have your best tools with you," he allowed. "If you blow it, can we still get what's inside?"

"Are you kidding?" she scoffed. "I don't know if I have enough C-4 left to do the job, but it'll certainly shake _something_ loose. Get back. Let me work. And don't lean on your shoulder."

Sam went to the door connecting them to the main office, opening it slightly to look out and beyond to the parking lot. Michael stole back through the storeroom and opened the door to the outside just wide enough for an eye to watch the street.

Fiona squished explosive into the keyholes. She went through the small cargo bag round her waist, finding more blasting caps and twining them together. She readied the detonator and went right up to the storeroom door.

"Uh - Fi?" Sam said. He didn't move from his doorjamb vigil. "We got a car - it's stopping."

"Who is it?" she demanded.

"No idea - blow it."

She pressed the button. Tiny pops and fizzes came from the three keyholes, along with a generous amount of smoke. She waved it away, grabbing the three-spindle handle and yanking it round. She coughed on the smoke once. "Sam? Help me with the spoils."

She rested wide open and they scooped out bundles of cash and papers. She stuffed it into her waist bag and he shoved some into the zip-up pockets of hid black combats. He grabbed her elbow, already pulling her to the door.

Michael was just opening it. "Anderson's here. Let's go."

"What's _he_ doing here?" she demanded.

"Later, Fi," Michael said. He waved them both out of the door. Then he went back to the office. He went to the string still hanging from the sucker, and its little aid parcel of camera-disrupting magnets, and got a good hold. Then he went back to the door, the string threading through his gloved fingers. He closed the door up to a few inches, then reached through and switched the lights out. _Then_ he pulled on the string, and pulled the small bundle across the room toward him. It slid over rubble and through obstacles until the way he wound the string round his hand made it leap into his palm. He tugged his cap straight and followed Sam and Fiona out of the back door.

He found them against the back wall, leaning on it and waiting.

"What now?" Sam whispered.

"Anderson's _here_," Fiona urged. "Do you know what that means? He's going to find the safe in about three more seconds!"

"It also means," Michael said with a small, sly smile that Fiona quite liked the look of, "we _know_ he's not at home." He looked at Sam. "You got his address?"

"Do waitresses wait for Chuck Finley?" he grinned.

"Car. Now. Before 'Chuck Finley' becomes a euphemism for losing the fabulous dinner I had earlier at _Le Bouchon du Grove_," Fiona groused.

"You had dinner at _Le Bouchon du Grove_?" Michael asked, surprised.

"Yes. With a friend," she said primly.

"A friend," Michael echoed flatly.

"A friend. He was very… charming," she smiled.

Michael looked at her - just looked.

She put a hand to the front of his t-shirt, using it to steady herself as she looked around the corner of the building. Then she streaked off.

Michael looked at Sam. "Did you get the numbers of Anderson's men, too?"

The ex-Navy SEAL grinned. "Marchess and Ford? Of course."

"Call them - tell them Anderson's at home with their cash."

"Just as soon as we're rollin'," he nodded.

There was a crash of wood and a shout from inside the building. "Time to go," Michael said. "Oh, and Sam?"

"Yeah, Mike?"

"Nice work."

Sam shrugged. "I can't help being this awesome. It's just the way I am."

Michael turned to run after Fiona, but he was grinning. Sam jumped and took off after him.

.

.

The Charger pulled up outside Anderson's house, Fiona tossing her canvas quiver-like bag to the footwell. "That's Siobhan's money," she said with a proud smile. She leapt from the passenger side with her waist bag in her hand as Michael let Sam out of the back seat on his side. She was already running for the house as Michael turned and ran after her.

She slid to her knees on the porch, bumping into the door, her second-best lockpicks ready. Michael checked in through the front window. He found it dark inside. He felt a vibration in his front combat pocket and pulled the bluetooth earpiece out of the other side. He plugged it in his ear, giving a slight hiss of pain, as Fiona opened the door. She sprang to her feet and twisted her MagLite on.

Michael pressed the earpiece. "Yeah, Sam."

"I'll keep watch out here. Those two goons will show up soon - I said I was a travel agent, that Anderson had just booked tickets to New York and I needed the cash now. Oh, and I may have been concerned about some strange car driving around quiet communities at this time of night, and called the police."

"You're a genius, Sam." He touched the earpiece again to cut the connection as he followed the beam from Fiona's torch inside the house.

"Does it hurt much?" she asked.

"What, you two leaving me out of this until the end?"

"Your shoulder, Michael."

"Let's get this done."

Her mouth thinned into an angry line but she splashed the light around the front room. "Do we plant it somewhere?" she asked.

Everything was on the verge of tidy, just about presentable. She eyed the two comfortable chairs and the slightly-worn sofa down the side of the room, turning with her bag to look for wall safes or in fact useful flat surfaces.

Michael twisted on his flashlight, then his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the area. "Sam says they're going to think he's grabbing all the money to pay cash for a flight," he said. "Where would you put it?"

"I'd… be counting it on the sofa," she said brightly, going to the saggy piece of furniture and kneeling down. She spread it all out and began to sort the denominations into separate piles.

Michael heard his earpiece blip. He pressed it. "Yeah, Sam."

"A black sedan - and it ain't Anderson," Sam's voice said. "Scoot."

"Fi," Michael said. "Let's go."

"Y'know, this would be easier if you people made your bank notes different colours," she said irritably. "Who decided they should all be green anyway?"

"It's fine, Fi. It'll get the job done."

She dropped the rest of the money to the sofa and pushed herself and her torch to her feet. He went to the wall by the front door and twisted off his light. She turned hers off and landed against the wall behind him. His eyes swivelled up and he reached behind him without looking. He pulled her in front of him. She looked through the gap of the slightly open door.

"Too late - they're here," she tutted. "What do you want to do?"

"Back door."

"Ooh Michael," she teased, turning and winking rather smuttily at him.

He raised his right hand and pointed off toward the back of the house, an expression of complete disbelief on his face. She giggled and ran. He put his hands on his hips, rolled his eyes, and blew out a looooong sigh. The crunch of a foot on gravel by the door made him run off after her.

.

.

Fiona rang the doorbell, standing around and looking extremely pleased. She even swayed round to look behind her at Sam with a big smile. He let his hands slip into his pockets.

The door opened and Siobhan looked out. "Oh, hi!" she said. She stepped back. "Please, come in."

"Oh no, we'd hate to intrude," Fiona said. "We just came by to return your money."

"What? So soon?" Siobhan gasped. "But that's tremendous."

"We aim to please," Sam winked. "And Fi here is a tigress when it comes to righting wronged women."

Fiona looked over her shoulder at him but then her attention went back to Siobhan. "Really, it was our pleasure. Here." She put her hand out, offering a small bag. It appeared to be off-white canvas, about two hands wide and the same tall, on a long strap.

Siobhan took it slowly, turning it over. The words _Éire go Brách_ were embroidered on the front in large green letters. She laughed.

"I know it's corny, but I was in a good mood and I thought, hell, why not," Fiona smiled.

"Thank you - both of you," Siobhan said, squeezing the bag in both hands. She paused. "Oh. The money's in here too?"

"Well of course," Fiona said. "Now go spend it on a proper holiday for you and Sean."

"Are you kidding?" she grinned. "We're going deep-sea fishing off Cape Canaveral. Screw that foreign lands rubbish."

Sam laughed, nodding to her. "Well, whatever you decide to do, have a good one."

"Look, I can pay you," Siobhan said. "I mean, you did all this-"

"No no," Fiona said, cutting her off with a wave of her hand. "Mr Anderson is relaxing as a guest of the state, and his stolen cash is in the process of being traced and returned. I can honestly say this was a really _fun_ job."

"If you're sure," Siobhan said, her expression everything to do with doubt.

"Compared to some of the stuff we do? This was easy," Fiona beamed. "And sometimes, helping people, being _with_ people, is its own reward."

Siobhan looked at her for a long moment. Then she nodded. "Ok then. Thanks for everything, you two. If you ever need anything - anything at all - let me know."

"How about a beer 'round St. Patrick's?" Sam grinned.

Siobhan grinned. "On me - as much as you can drink."

"Don't tempt him," Fiona sighed.

"Well so long then. Stay safe," Sam nodded. He tipped a finger to his forehead and turned back to the front path.

Fiona nodded to her and turned to go too, but Siobhan put her hand out suddenly. She held onto Fiona's wrist. Fiona spun back, surprised.

"Whoever he is, this man who works too much so you never see him?" Siobhan said quietly. "Make him notice you."

"If only I could," she said sadly. She covered Siobhan's hand with hers. "But thanks."

Siobhan nodded. Fiona turned and walked off down the path, her tall Jimmy Choo's knocking against the stone until she climbed into her car.

Siobhan watched them drive off, waving at the window. She shook her head in wonder, looked at the bag, and closed the front door softly.

.

.

Fiona pushed the metal door open to Michael's loft, leaning on it and lifting a large shoe up behind her. "Michael?" she trilled happily.

There was no answer. She frowned, let a small bag dangle from its loop around her left wrist, and closed the door with a forceful flick of her foot. She sauntered into the excuse for a front room and looked at the available evidence: car keys on the bench by the fridge, which tallied with the Charger still parked outside, muddy trainers under the bench by the window, and the balcony doors open. She walked further into the room, perplexed.

"Michael?"

"Up here, Fi."

She looked up the metal steps behind her, finding him sat behind the wooden table and a rather knackered excuse for the shell of a laptop. "What are you doing?" she demanded, noting his bare feet and jeans poking out underneath. She bounced up the stairs, coming round the side of the defunct monitor and folding her arms. As she had not expected, but secretly hoped, he was wearing a single white t-shirt.

And a wide, cheesy grin that broadcast hopeful apology.

"Uhm… cannibalising this computer for spare parts?" he ventured.

She put a hand out and whacked the monitor closed into the keyboard. He jumped and yanked his fingers out of pancaking range. "You are not supposed to be doing anything that involves tiny pieces, using your shoulder, or spy stuff," she snapped. His expression didn't change. Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I did a _little_ bit of spy stuff. Had to find something," he said, leaning forward and picking up a small box - one that had been hidden until she had closed the laptop. Black, smudged with grease, dog-eared and definitely not expensive, it found itself lifted in his hand and stretched out toward her.

"What is it?"

"It's for you, Fi," he said quietly.

She sniffed and tossed her hair over her shoulder, refusing to look at it. "This doesn't get you off the hook, you know."

"I know," he shrugged - and regretted the twinge it brought his shoulder.

She took it slowly, pulling the rubber band off. Opening the lid, she paused and stared at him. "Oh, Michael," she feathered on a tiny breath of appreciation.

"They're titanium alloy so they won't corrode like the ones you had at The Palace in Dublin. And they're magnetic, so they won't fall out of the lock. -And they have pressure-sensitive grips for when you have your favourite gloves on."

She stared at the neat rows of differing sizes and functions of lockpicks, hovering two fingers over them before she apparently got up the courage to stroke them in awe. "Michael, that's… That's so thoughtful."

"The best operatives should only use the best equipment," he said lightly, his head tilted to keep his eyes on the laptop.

She grinned, dropping her small bag to the computer and pushing his arm out of the way. She sat herself sideways on his lap, wrapping her arms round his neck and hugging. "_Thank_ you, Michael. They're very special."

"Aren't you both," he observed, his mouth so near her ear.

She lifted the box behind his shoulder, looking at the set of picks speculatively. "I have oil in my bag."

"The Charger's fine, Fi."

"For your shoulder."

"Oh," was all he managed through his surprise. She grinned, leaning back. He looked at her. "Let me get cleaned up first," he said.

"Don't bother," she said brightly. "You're only going to get dirty again."

"Not if-"

"No, Michael - you _will_."

He opened his mouth but paused to think about it. "Are we talking about my shoulder?"

She slid off his lap. He watched her carry her small bag - and new box - to the top of the steps. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and began to slink down the flight of stairs.

Michael looked at the laptop. He pushed it further away across the desk.

And then he got up quickly, chasing after her.

**FIN**

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* * *

And that's a wrap, people. Thanks for reading! Your comments\reviews\attention\interest\favourites are absolutely **golden**. You have made this story fun to finish. Thank you.


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